Fallen Angel
by ObsessedRomantic
Summary: A short and angsty one-shot/missing scene from early in season two somewhere between the first and second episode where Kirsten finds out what brought her sons home.


**FALLEN ANGEL**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing to do with the OC, b/c Josh is mean and won't sell (even when I offered my Star Trek bookmark collection). Not making money off this, reviews are all I can have.

**Summary: **Another one-shot; this one from season two. A short hurt/comfort from somewhere between the first and second episodes thereof.

**A/N: **So I'm watching the series to get ideas for my AU's and all that happens is I get inspired for one-shots. (sigh).

This one's a bit of a tear jerker; so keep your hanky nearby.

--xxx—

Kirsten slipped out of bed quietly, pausing as her husband rolled over, muttering sleepily to himself. Seeing that he wasn't actually going to wake, she stuffed her feet into her slippers and reached for her robe. Quietly slipping through the house, she reminded herself why this was a bad idea. The work men occasionally left tools lying around, as Sandy had discovered early one morning as he padded, barefoot, to gather his surfing gear. Art had said that he'd speak to them, but that didn't mean that she wasn't chancing a nail in the foot, sneaking around in the dark. She couldn't help it though. She had to see.

She had to see her boys.

Seth was sprawled over his mattress, one foot sticking out from under the blankets; and if he kept his arm hanging off the bed like that, he was going to put it to sleep. As if he'd heard her mental observation, her son curled up into a ball, turned his head in the other direction, and spread back out (taking up the entire bed) including, she was tickled to note, the foot sticking out of the covers. It was so good to have him home, she could almost forget the three months of torture he'd put her through. To be honest, though; she wasn't _really_ that mad at him. She had (she knew he didn't think so, but she had) seen how miserable he was before Ryan came; how miserable they all were, really. They never should have let him leave, should've insisted that Theresa stay as well. For whatever reason, though, he was back, they were back; and there was no way they were leaving again. She tugged gently at her son's blankets, covering those errant toes, and resisted the urge to kiss him good night. She didn't want to wake him, she just wanted to make sure he was safely back where he belonged.

Ryan's silhouette gave indication he was standing by the bed, her heart leapt into her throat at the reasons why he'd be up at this hour. It wasn't until she touched the door handle that she was able to make out his voice. He was on the phone with someone? Who could he be calling at this hour? Whether the baby was his or not (not being her only theory for **why** he'd come home); Theresa still needed her sleep. She was just about to turn the handle and tell him so when what he was saying became suddenly audible.

''……I could stand in the back! Please…..'' Kirsten had never heard that broken, begging tone in her adopted son's voice before. She wished she wasn't hearing it now. She covered her mouth with her free hand, beginning to realize the shape of what was tainting his return, what had kept him even quieter than usual throughout dinner. ''…..please, just tell me when the Mass is.'' Mass? Oh, God. There was only** one** reason they'd be having a Mass. She fought against the sting of tears, the pain sharp in her chest. Poor Ryan. ''……What do you** mean** there's not gonna be one?'' That shocked her, as well. Theresa had struck her as a very caring person, a strong and independent girl with a loving (somewhat religious) mother. How could they refuse to mourn……? ''……..because we weren't married?…….'' A note of defeat had crept into the shock and grief in his voice, she saw by the dim shape through the blinds that he sat heavily onto his bed. ''……I could come down there, talk to the priest…….'' Whatever he was feeling, it clearly wasn't hope that the person on the other end would say 'yes'. All that was conveyed by his words were surrender and pain; despair. ''……no……Theresa, it's not……..'' Now he sounded guilty, and a little angry. '' ……..I just want to light a candle for…….'' He cursed and she heard the clatter as he tossed the phone across the room. She thought that the girl must've hung up on him, and that she might as well go in before he started to throw something else.

''Ryan?'' His startled blue eyes were red-rimmed, but it didn't look like he'd been crying, just that he hadn't slept. He was dressed for a funeral, she saw. Apt, as the next day (well, later this morning, at this point) was Sunday, and he'd been expecting to go to a mourning ceremony. The black suit pants still fit very well, but the dark grey shirt was a little snug across the chest and the jacket lay across the bed, one of it's shoulder seams split about an inch. ''What do you need?'' She congratulated herself on the way she'd phrased that. 'Are you okay' would only get her the standard Ryan Atwood 'yes, I'm fine' whereas **this** question left him no choice but to say something; because if he said 'nothing', he'd be rude, and he was always scrupulously polite.

''You heard?'' He said it on a sigh, pulling his tie off over his head. His movements were slow and stiff and Seth's warning voice rang in her head, telling her (as he had last fall) that she only needed to worry about the blonde boy when he moved like a 'crippled mummy'. The description, as were most of her son's more colorful phrasing, was vividly appropriate; and she went over and sat next to the grieving almost-father.

''I know how……'' She began, willing to share her own tragedies if it meant softening the blow of this one.

''An abortion is different from a miscarriage.'' She flinched at his flat tone, wondering if it had really been a good idea to let Theresa know about that. Look what had happened from her offering the girl a chance to re-consider that decision. She'd almost lost both her sons, and the baby (whomever's it was) had been lost; probably because it's mother was too young. ''Theresa told me.'' Ryan was saying, gaze locked on his hands as he played with the tie bunched between his fingers. ''After you brought by the baby clothes and stuff.'' She'd dug out some of Seth's old things, given what wasn't **too** sentimentally dear freely, out of a desire to leave her adopted son some reminder that he was still a part of their family. He'd called, the next day, and asked her not to return; not even thanking her for the gifts. It had been very unlike him, and she'd wondered why, at the time. Now, she thought she knew.

''You don't approve.'' Kirsten never would've believed he'd be so firmly against a woman's right to choose; he certainly hadn't shown any sign of this attitude when his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) was considering that option. She had to explain that she hadn't had anyone like him, like Sandy to help her think it through. All she'd had was Jimmie, who was in no shape to become a father, at that point in his life. Not that she'd been all that eager to be a mother, but there'd been no one she could turn to for advice, or even just to listen. ''Ryan, what I did…..'' He had to realize that she regretted it, never more strongly than when Seth had turned out to be her only child.

''She said you were helping us out of guilt.'' He still wouldn't look at her, but this time his tone was apologetic, voice distant; as if he could remove any connection to the words by keeping them un-emotional. ''She said that you were trying to buy me back.'' She opened her mouth to protest, to defend her action; but he was continuing. ''I didn't want you coming by and hearing that so……'' He shrugged, the sheepish maneuver of a teenager. She was somewhat relieved to see it, glad that the boy, the child, he'd never been allowed to be (save here, in this house) was still in there. They sat for a long while, only their breathing and the soft sounds of the fabric moving through his fingers breaking the silent grieving.

But he **wasn't** grieving, she saw when she risked a glance. He seemed…….frozen, lost. Her adopted son may not be all that religious, but she knew that the Mass had been given an epic importance because of his need for structure in his life. If something like this happens, one went to church and lit a candle. That's what one did, that's what was done. It might not make him feel better (she seriously doubted anything would), but it was the only thing there **was**. Now that plan had been taken away from him, and he very obviously had no idea what to do next.

All of a sudden, **she** did.

''I'll be right back.'' She assured him, standing up and straightening her robe. She strode confidently back into the main house, going to the attic access and digging through until she found the right group of boxes, the right cardboard square among them. Sandy always teased about how meticulously she labeled and packed things away; but it made them so much easier to find when she suddenly (unexpectedly) needed them. When she returned to the pool house, Ryan had changed into sweats and a tee shirt and was flipping through one of his old school books.

''We missed registr…….'' He trailed off as he looked up, frowning at the box in her hands. ''What's that?'' He set the book aside, standing up from his seat on edge of the bed.

''I signed you up already, just in case you came home.'' Kirsten told him, looking around the room for a place to set up. Not anywhere out in the public area; she knew he wouldn't want anyone to see this and be moved to try and talk to him about it. Back against the wall, then, by the door to the bathroom, on the far counter. She felt him follow her up the shallow steps, heard his small intake of breath when she lifted the glass from it's wrappings. "This was my mother's.''

It was a small frosted-glass church, a simple rectangle with a peaked roof and steeple. She set it down and lifted it free of it's base, putting the top to one side. Some of the votive candles that she'd used with it were still in the box, and she placed one tenderly in hollow in the 'floor' of the church before returning the rest of the glass structure to it's former position. She handed Ryan a punt she'd snagged from the living room mantle and lit it with a cigarette lighter she'd found in the same place. The tiny doorway was hollow, the means by which the candle could be lit without the necessity of taking the thing apart, or risking a burn in putting it back together.

The punt was halfway burnt down (her heart felt like the ashes dusting the counter) by the time he moved. His hand shook, and the Latin he recited was wavering, trembling phrases; apparently pulled from some memory she didn't want to know about. He was in so much pain already, she didn't need him to dredge up the events that had caused him to learn that litany. Luminescence was born within the glass, and his hand shook even more when the etched outline (in the front face of the building) of an angel taking flight was revealed by it's gentle glow. He choked on the final words, stumbling back against the dividing counter, dropping the punt to the tile. He slumped (more like fell) down on the floor, tears spilling over to slide, un-noticed, down his cheeks.

She knelt down and put her arms around him without a word, cradling his head against her shoulder. It seemed like forever that he shuddered, hunching into himself, keeping his head turned away from her. She kept silent, not really knowing what to say. Of **course** she was sorry, of **course** she wished it hadn't happened, of **course** it was brutal, and unfair, and a traumatic loss.** Saying** so wasn't going to help in the slightest, and in Ryan's case, it might even make it worse.

Finally, he turned his head into her shoulder, curling into her embrace and clutching at her robe like a toddler. Great, heaving sobs wracked his body, struggling their way free of his stubborn notion of being 'strong' and 'manly'. She stroked her hand soothingly up and down his back, feeling tears prick her own eyes at the obviously inexperienced nature of his weeping. She didn't care if he soaked her to the skin, if the snot ruined her Egyptian cotton robe; no, she didn't even care if her legs went numb for life: she was going to kneel here until he'd cried himself out entirely.

Until he'd grieved for not only the child he'd lost, but for the child he'd been.


End file.
